Game On (30 page)

I hop down from the truck, along with her. The field's wide open, but the sky's even wider, with millions of stars lighting up the night. Perfect. I open the toolbox in the back of the truck, pulling out tonight's supplies: my laptop, a jumbo-size bag of pre-made popcorn, and a
blanket,
which probably reinforces her “getting laid” comment, but I didn't exactly think that one through. I just didn't want the girl to be cold, dang it.

She eyes me. “I'm gonna need some explanations here.”

I pop the tailgate and climb into the back of the truck. “The river's too crowded, and even if Joyner's didn't close early on Sunday, there's no way in hell I'd take you there for a date.”

“I've seen you take dates there before.”

I shake my head. “Not you.”

She moves to the back of the truck, standing at the edge of the tailgate. “So, what? Are you going for Charmer of the Year or something?”

“Is it working?”

“Guess we'll find out.”

I sit, leaning against the toolbox. “I was thinking about that one night in the back of my truck, when you told me how sacred these nights are. And that you loved the wide-open skies and the stars, so I figured, why not find the widest sky and the most stars that I could?”

Her mouth drops open. “Okay. So it's official—you are Charmer of the Year. Congratulations.”

I slap my hand over my chest. “Trust me. I'll take this honor seriously.”

Shaking her head, she hoists herself into the bed of the truck. And, after staring me down, sits beside me, stretching her legs alongside mine. “Now,” she says, “what's with the laptop?”

“That one's easier.” I set it up in front of us, just past her outstretched legs. “I wanted to bring one of your favorite things to one of your favorite places.” That TV show of hers fills the screen, the opening credits almost ear-blistering against the peacefulness of the night. I settle back against the toolbox, barely holding back my grin. I can feel her eyes boring right into me.

Grand
slam.

She leans forward, allowing me to toss the blanket around her. Only this time, instead of holding back, I wrap my arm around her, too. She doesn't say a word—she leans into my side, melting right into place. And I'm not sure anything's ever felt more right. I wouldn't mind more of these nights. Every night. But in a few months, nights like these won't be possible. No matter where I go, we'll be split up. Sure, Jay was right about technology being all well and good, but it doesn't come close to replacing this. And we're just getting started.

“You're quiet,” she says.

Clearing my throat, I nod toward my laptop. “I'm watching a show.”

“You're thinking-quiet, not show-watching-quiet. It's different.”

I glance down. It's impossible to lie to that face. “I'm thinking about next year,” I admit. “I'm still confused. I still have no clue what I want to do. But I'd really like more nights like these.”

She shifts beneath my arm, somehow moving even closer, and laces her fingers through mine. “All right, we're gonna figure this out. What are you passionate about? What makes your heart feel like it'll burst?”

“Baseball.” Despite the crap I've gone through this season, the answer is automatic. “And kids. I like the whole hanging-out-with-kids thing.”

Her lips spread into a slow smile. “You're good with them. So mesh baseball and kids together, and see what you get.”

“PE.” It spills out almost immediately. She scrunches her eyebrows, so I add, “I was looking at Winthrop's majors. They have a Phys Ed degree, with a coaching minor.”

Her
mouth drops open as her eyes widen. “See? That's perfect! Eric Perry, I think you've got a future.”

“It can't seriously be that easy.” Can it?

She beams, that smile of hers brighter than any star in the sky, and I damn near melt. “It can absolutely be that easy. Sometimes you just have to say things out loud before they feel real.”

“You're really good at that, you know,” I tell her. “Talking me out of my head.”

She shrugs, but her smile grows even bigger as she looks back to the computer. “Talking to you is one of my favorite things. Because you talk me out of
my
head.”

I don't think I've ever been described as someone's favorite thing. But I like it.

“And for the record,” she continues, “I absolutely, 100 percent think you should try walking on.”

A knot lodges in my throat. The idea of not playing next year is nearly enough to drive me to crying like a baby. “And why's that?”

She looks up at me. “I can't see you without baseball. I don't think you can see yourself without baseball. And despite what you seem to think, you're pretty great.”

Rolling my eyes, I blow out a breath. “This is a first date. I'm supposed to be complimenting you.”

She laughs lightly. Rests her head on my shoulder. “You'll have plenty more chances.”

I really like the sound of that.

“I don't know what it is about you,” she says, “but you make me think some crazy things.”

Crazy's good. Crazy's so underrated. “Like what?”

She
sighs. “Like maybe—maybe this can be an actual thing. I want to believe in
this
. I want to be believe in shooting stars and the magic of kisses and—”

Reaching down, I grasp the bottom of her chin, tilting her face toward mine. And I don't know how she did it, but my heart feels like it's stopped and going a million miles a minute at the same time.

“I want to believe that I can be happy,” she says quietly. “And you make me believe all those things.”

If I thought I had a knot in my throat before, now it's a full-blown blockage. I look into her eyes, the eyes of a girl I've known most of my life. The eyes of a girl whose heart has been through hell and back, and, for some crazy reason, is trusting me with that heart. And it's blowing my mind that she wants anything to do with me, but I'm not gonna question miracles.

Dropping my forehead to hers, I whisper, “You make me really happy.”

Her eyes flutter closed, and before I can take another breath, her lips are on mine, soft and sweet. I bury my hand in her hair, holding her closer, holding her for as long as she'll let me. Because some moments are too damn good to be true, and you hang on to those moments for as long as you can.

She smiles against my lips, pulling away just enough to say, “Kissing you is one of my other favorite things.”

And now I'm grinning like a damn idiot. “We've got that in common.” I press my lips to hers again. I've always loved these Carolina nights, but I swear to the Lord in heaven above, I don't think one has ever been more perfect.

Chapter
Twenty-Seven

Eric

I did not, in fact, get grounded for life, which made last Sunday night even more amazing. The fact that I stayed out all night during Spring Break instead of a school night saved my ass.

By the time I finally roll out of bed on Saturday morning, Brett's already in the kitchen with our parents, eating and gearing up for the Tri-County Spring Break Tournament. It's a tournament Lewis Creek hosts every year. One that I'm pitching in. So I probably should've been the one awake already, but whatever.

After eating and finally getting my ass in motion, Brett and I head to the field while our parents and sisters pile into Momma's van. By the time we reach the school, the parking lot is already jam-packed, even though the tournament doesn't start for another half hour. Two cop cars are parked right behind the field house, with Officers Concord and Martinez standing guard by the bleachers.

“You know you're probably the reason those cops are here, right?” I ask Brett.

He rolls his eyes. “You know just as well as I do: I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. Besides, remember which one of us has been thrown in jail this season. They're probably here to keep an eye on
you.
”

Details.

Our parents snag one of the few spots left, so we circle the lot and head for the back. There's one spot available on the back row—right beside Bri's car. Where she parked right on
top
of the solid line. Once Brett cuts the engine, I hop down from the Jeep. Bri's just barely able to get her door open, and she legit has to maneuver out of her seat so she doesn't slam Brett's Jeep.

“Are you aware that you kind of parked like a jerk?” I ask her.

She shoves her keys into her pocket. “Are you aware that I came straight here from the center, and parked like a jerk so you could actually have a spot?”

“Then I take back the jerk comment.”

Brett slams his door closed, tossing up a wave as he walks toward the field. I glance over one shoulder. And then the other. And then to Bri, who's looking up at me with a tiny little smirk. She steps forward, placing her hands on my hips. I don't know if
she
knows, but that drives me nuts in the best possible way. “You ready for today?” she asks.

Am I ready for the people who're gonna be staring me down, waiting for a repeat of the Brett Perry throwdown? Or the people who remember how piss-poor we played in this tournament last year? I wrap my arms around her and say, “Why wouldn't I be?”

She purses her lips. “Don't try to bullshit a bullshitter, Eric.”

Laughing, I press a kiss to her forehead. With one arm still slung across her shoulder, we start toward the field.

~

Last year's tournament was marked with punches and my brother getting the only ejection of his high school career. This year's is going a hell of a lot better, if I say so myself. And by that, I mean I'm pitching the game of
my
career.

By
the top of the seventh, the Bruins, the opposing team, have zero hits. Zip. Nada. Not one batter has touched a base. I've never pitched a no-hitter in my life, and I'm not about to let this go. These are the games a pitcher dreams of when he first gets his hands on a ball.

With the score still 0-0, I stride to the mound as the others jog to their own positions. Nerves knot in my stomach while adrenaline surges through the rest of me, and I'm not sure which feeling to give in to.

Adrenaline gives you the confidence to pitch the hell out of the ball. Nerves give you enough humbleness to not screw it all up.

I scan the bleachers, and have to bite back my shit-eating grin. The entire bottom row of the bleachers is packed with my family, along with Bri and Jay and Braxton and Braxton's girlfriend, Marisa. I wonder how much money they bribed the others to free that row up. Not gonna lie—it's a damn good feeling.

Tugging the brim of my cap, I eye the first batter. Check Blake's call: Curveball. Curveball it is.

Strike one.

The crowd cheers, and I'm kind of surprised they actually have voices left. I don't think they've stopped hollerin' since we started. And I don't know what kind of stars aligned or whatever, but every single pitch today? On freakin' point.

Fastball.
Strike two.

Changeup.
Strike three.

Honestly, the kids at Serenity Valley could probably hit better than these jokers.

After two more batters embarrass themselves—again—I head to the dugout. The game's not over yet; we're still scoreless. And guess who's up to bat.

No
pressure, though.

I tug on a helmet, grab my bat from the bundle, and move to the dugout's opening. Kellen's on deck, so he lines up behind me, sing-songing, “Score is zero.”

I glance over my shoulder. “Nothin' gets past you, bro.”

He nods, his gaze trained on the field. “Zilch. Nada.”

“And you're giving me the rundown, why?”

He smirks. “Only takes one good smack.”

I return his smirk with one of my own. “Then it's go time.”

Coach slaps my shoulder as I step out onto the field. I'm just gonna put this out there: I'm not an all-star batter. I'm decent, and I can smack the shit out of a ball, but my average is nothing to brag about. So let's be real: I'm nearly ready to piss my pants.

I wish I were joking.

But I walk to the plate, swinging the bat along the way. Ready myself for the pitch. As soon as the pitcher goes into his windup, I square up over the plate.

A fastball barrels toward me. I swing with all my might, the connection vibrating through my arms. And that ball freakin' soars.

“Deep toward left,” the announcer booms through the stadium. “It's going, folks!”

I start toward first, watching as the ball sails. And sails. And sails. And lands in the field, on the
other
side of the fence.

Home. Freakin'. Run.

The crowd's roar is all I hear. Chills shoot through me as I round the bases, probably with the dumbest grin on my face, but I can't find an ounce of craps to give. I may not play for the cheers, but they're pretty damn awesome.

The
guys spill out of the dugout as I round third, and the second I tag home plate is the go-ahead for tackle-the-hell-out-of-Eric with slaps and high-fives and a freakin' catcher on my back, but whatever.
Worth it
.

It only takes one.

After the post-game handshakes, we clear the field so the next two teams can prep for their game. I grab my gear and head straight to the stands, my stupid grin only growing when I spot Bri. She runs straight for me and leaps into my arms, nearly knocking me clean off my feet. My gear bag drops to the ground, but screw it; I squeeze her tight.

“You were un-freaking-believable,” she says. And she kisses me, long and sweet, and I'm pretty sure half the town is probably gawking at us by now, but who the hell cares.

She jumps to the ground and, without hesitation, grabs my hand. I think that may be even better than the home run. “A no-hitter,” she says.